


Think I Believe In It

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: "Only you," sighed Treville, "could say 'conniving amoral bastard' and mean it as a compliment."





	Think I Believe In It

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by hacash on tumblr.

"Only you," sighed Treville, "could say 'conniving amoral bastard' and mean it as a compliment."

He left Richelieu in the doorway, staring in grudging admiration at the retreating hay carriage that Porthos had commandeered it for Treville’s kidnapping. Treville figured that if he had to suffer this forced vacation then Richelieu could suffer his teacups being shuffled around. **  
**

“I’m sure he took it as such,” Richelieu finally said, closing the door and leaving the cold northern winds to beat themselves tirelessly against the outer walls of the one-room cottage. “What did he mean by his remark?”

“‘Don’t come back until you can’t walk straight’ seems to convey his expectation that we’ll be fucking each other senseless,” Treville said. Mostly to see if Richelieu would rise to the bait.

The other man only tipped his head impatiently. “He said you were ill.” Seeing Treville about to refute it, Richelieu quoted, “‘The minister’s been looking peaky recently. Figured this ought to do him some good.’”

“I haven’t been ill,” Treville deflected, and busied himself with the cast iron kettle, thinking idly of his silver tea set served to him by a maid now that he was minister: one cup on a tray at two o’clock every day. “It’s just the work. The King seems more unreasonable every day; persuading him to relinquish each notion that crosses his brain seems as impossible as herding cats.”

“Or Gascons.”

“Or clergymen,” Treville returned, glad Richelieu was leaving off his questioning. He poured the tea and turned, his right hand half-extended before he realized that he was offering an empty palm. He had forgotten to make a second cup.

The maid would have brought in two cups on the silver tray. Treville’s office would have been filled by another human soul for a quick half-hour meeting before his next scheduled duty loomed and the room would be wide and empty again, his desk cold as the winter sun set at three o’clock.

“Oh, my love,” Richelieu sighed. “You have finally learned to be alone, haven’t you?” 

He steered Treville to an armchair and returned to the hearth to tip the hot water into his own teacup. He let the leaves steep.

Treville balanced the delicate teacup on his chair and curled his worn soldier’s hand over his old soldier’s knee and bit the inside of his lip to keep from saying, _yes, and it kills me every day I manage it_.

He rarely visited the Musketeers’ garrison anymore, for fear the itch to correct that man’s footwork and insert pointed questions into this mission-planning would usurp Athos’ relatively new position as captain. He swore himself a coward every day he felt his breath tighten with indecision as he looked toward the arrondissement where the Musketeers trained; and now he swore himself a thousand times more a coward as he kept his eyes fixed on his hands and not on the familiar form of Richelieu, bustling over the fire.

If he dared to look then he would forget his duty as minister, and he would stay in this cabin as he would run to the garrison and take up a sword again if he gave into that itch to follow his heart.

Treville was a soldier of France. He knew duty. He knew he could not stay.

Richelieu settled himself to Treville right and gently took Treville’s teacup from him. A moment later a mug was pressed into his hand: sturdy, made of clay; the perfect width for Treville’s gnarled knuckles to wrap around it. The same scent rose from this mug as had from the teacup; it was not the tea that had changed, but the vessel.

Richelieu was sitting in another armchair. In his peripheral vision Treville could see the stiff backboard, for Richelieu’s sore neck; and just at the corner of his eye was a scuffed leg where Richelieu had given in to his long, absent habit of wrapping his left foot around his chair as he read.

Treville had unconsciously chosen the armchair at an angle to the chair made for Richelieu; and he had chosen it because it was precisely the soft, lumpy kind he preferred at the end of a long day. His mug was warm and fit his hands perfectly. There was probably a wool blanket on that bed in the corner of the room, despite Richelieu’s many declarations that although soldiers may be suited to scratchy wool, cardinals and those of finer tastes preferred goose down.

Cautiously, Treville raised his eyes.

“You learned to be alone,” he said, “for many years.” His voice was hoarse; too much wind on the journey here, he supposed.

“All men live alone,” said Richelieu. “We must satisfy ourselves with anticipation of the times when we might share the company of others. Even if it is only a temporary reprieve.”

Treville's mouth, like his throat, was dry. He swallowed to no avail. “And when the anticipation is over?” 

“Then there is anticipation for the next time. And memories to sustain us.”

The words would not emerge from his throat; Treville licked his lips and tried again. “If memories aren’t enough?”

“They have to be,” Richelieu said, so gently that Treville nearly looked away again; but he didn’t; he kept his eyes fixed on Richelieu and saw the long years of duty and estrangement reflected in that face.

Richelieu rose again, to stir the soup hanging over the hearth. Treville wrapped his old soldier’s hands more firmly around his mug and brought it to his lips without sipping, savoring the deep smoky scent. The fire popped twice as Richelieu fed it more wood, and the wind outside the house whistled in reply.

Treville could not stay. He knew this. Still, he caught Richelieu's hand as the man passed him on his return to his armchair. He hesitated, words vanishing in the sensation of Richelieu's hand again in his. Treville ducked his head and lifted Richelieu's familiar knuckles to his jaw; the old and wrinkled skin flexed against his beard. 

"I must visit the garrison when I return," he murmured at last. "To thank Porthos." 


End file.
